


retourne-toi

by amatchforyourmadness



Series: what two sides of a coin mean to one another [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Finds Out About Merlin’s Magic (Merlin), Arthur is very traumatised and he has no Merlin so you can imagine the kind of stress he is under., Good Morgana (Merlin), Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Merlin Dies (Merlin), Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Pining Arthur, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Merlin, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amatchforyourmadness/pseuds/amatchforyourmadness
Summary: “Arthur." Merlin's voice calls, through the haze of cold and the devastation of death. He lays his forehead against Arthur's back, in-between his shoulder blades when he refuses to turn, blinking the tears from his gaze and holding his head high. “Arthur.” Merlin pleads, forehead still against his back, long fingers holding tightly onto the king's arms, before he rises his face to press a kiss to the back of Arthur's neck and noses along his hair. “Turn around.”(in which Arthur goes back in time, to find Merlin right after having lost him).
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: what two sides of a coin mean to one another [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745929
Comments: 142
Kudos: 409





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> look, I just... *sighs* I was inspired by Portrait of a Lady on Fire and I know I have so many Geraskier content I have to update and I still have to write part 3 of my other Merlin series and I've fallen into a Merthur blackhole, okay? Don't hold it against me.

“You're not walking out of this cave with me, are you?”

It's a slow realization, and a heavy one. It’s always that way with Merlin though, and he struggles with the matter of breathing faced by the revelations of the weights the brunette behind him carried on his shoulders with a smile, all hard decisions in his name for years on end without his knowledge.

He thinks of what it took of him, to realize Arthur wouldn't make it, to turn from his course to Avalon and towards the crystal cave, using of his blood and Arthur's to reach back into time and into a second chance.

“All magic has a price, Arthur.” He sounds so serene, almost whimsical, and Arthur feels like a girl for thinking those things, but maybe it's just the fact that he is about to lose him. “I can't bend all laws of balance to my favor.”

“You did not tell me of _this_ price. You did not say, it would be _you_.”

“It was me or you, sire.” He says, and it takes all of him to not smack him across the face when he listens to the smile in his voice, sucking a breath sharply as his Merlin’s finger reach to brush over the side of his chain mail where Mordred had ran him through, now only tender flesh and mended skin. “It's not hard to guess what my choice would be.”

He wants to cry, because it was true. He often forgot that Merlin drank poison for him two weeks into knowing him, tried it again after the unicorn, and now the list of almost deaths was so extensive it was hard to keep track once he knew them all. The softly whispered confession of Merlin's voice had been his one distraction in the arduous way through the cave. Poisons aside, he had struck a bargain for Arthur's life with his, he fought and killed Nimueh, he fought Morgana countless times, he was captured by a troll in the dungeons, Alator, there had been the Lamia, the fomorroh, the dorocha, and so much more.

The walk through the cave was long and arduous, and after they — well, Merlin — had opened the portal through the core crystal, it has been dark and cold. Merlin had warned him he could not turn around, because if he looked behind him, to the future they were abandoning, they'd be back into the cave, he would bleed to death in Merlin's arms, and everything would have been in vain.

Still, time was a funny thing in the cave. Merlin said objectively there had been barely a few hours between the moment they had walked in and now, but it felt like months. Had he been alone, Arthur would surely go mad, but he wasn't. He demanded his truth, and Merlin told him, easily and freely — _too easily, too freely_ — and he should have known.  
Merlin was born with magic, he was the warlock of a prophecy regarding Arthur, he was the most powerful warlock to ever live, he was meant to protect Arthur. His father had been Balinor, he had loved a girl once, the girl had died. Will hadn't been the sorcerer, he had. Lancelot knew, because he has enchanted his spear. Back then, he had planned to be the sacrifice, but Lancelot had gone ahead and spared him.

Arthur couldn't be more thankful and, even though he couldn't look back, he reached for Merlin's hands and the warlock interwined his pale fingers with Arthur's. His hand was colder than usual, but warmer than the cave. Merlin had whispered his biggest confession so softly Arthur has barely heard it over the heavy thumping of his heart. How a small, magical nobody of Ealdor had loved the Prince of Camelot for as long as he could remember. He had had to stop, to kneel in the damp ground and let the stupid man hug him from behind, holding onto his hands and arms as tightly as he could, sobbing out of heartbreak and joy as he told him about a King who had once been a Prince and who realized he loved a stupid, brave and selfless boy in the moment he had seen him on a bed, dying from a poison he willingly drank for him.

‘All this time and you never told me?’ Merlin had whispered, chuckling softly though his voice too had been heavy with tears. ‘Who are you to say anything?', he had retorted with a snort, ‘You've magic and you've been in love with me too, you're the bigger fool.’

Merlin's lips had brushed his shoulder as he pressed the words, warm and meaningful against his chain mail.

'The best kept secrets of Camelot.’

Time was a funny thing in the cave. They had confessed their love merely moments ago, he knew. It has been sweet and warm and glorious, and Arthur had never been as happy, not even when he married Gwen, not even when he saw Merlin defy death to return to him time after time.

Now he felt like he had never been as unhappy. The tears that sprung to his eyes once more were not of joy. He felt like he might die at any moment.

But he wouldn't die, because who would die would be—

“I should have made you swear.” He whispers, voice and breath shaky at his innocence, his stupidity, his naivety in believing Merlin’s words. “I should have made you swear you wouldn’t put my life above yours, I should have made you swear you would be safe.”

“Old habits die heart, my King. Don’t hold what I chose to do against you.”

“I’m holding this against the both of us.”

The mouth of the cave was just ahead, and it was light and bright and wonderful, glowing with promises. And he didn't care for a single one of those, because Merlin wouldn't be with him. He lets his head hang forwards, limp and defeated and strangling all his words inside.

“Arthur." Merlin's voice calls, through the haze of cold and the devastation of death. He lays his forehead against Arthur's back, in-between his shoulder blades when he refuses to turn, blinking the tears from his gaze and holding his head high. “Arthur.” Merlin pleads, forehead still against his back, long fingers holding tightly onto the king's arms, before he lifts his face to press a kiss to the back of Arthur's neck and noses along his hair. “ _Turn around_.”

His breath gets stuck in the back of his throat for a moment before a mournful sound rips itself out of his lungs. He _knows_ what he's asking, he knows what this means, he knows what will happen and he won't do that because if he does that—

“You will leave me.” He moaned, shaking his head and trying to pull from his grasp, to guide them into the light, to keep Merlin. Gods, he just wanted to keep Merlin. “If I look at you now, I'll walk out of here alone. You'll leave me.”

“Arthur..."

“Merlin, I cannot do this alone!”

“You won't be alone. I'll be with you, I've always been with you.”

“But he is _not_ you.” He screams and his voice echoes, loudly. “I mean, he is you, but not this you. He does not know what happened, he won't know.” A shaky hand hovers above his and he squeezes tightly, hoping that if he holds him tightly enough he will understand. “He won't be you ”

He just wants to _keep Merlin_.

Can't he be allowed that?  
“No, he will be better.” No one could be better, he doesn't want him to be better, why can't he see that? Why can't he see that? “When you tell him, he'll be frightened for a moment, but he won't be scared.” And he can hear in-between his words, ‘he won't be scared as I was’. “He won't grow skeptical and cynical, and he will know you care for him. And above all else, you will be _you_.” Merlin places his palm over his chest, right above his heart, a heart that should not be beating, and that will keep it's pulse if he doesn’t looks back at the expense of Merlin’s. “You're all I ever needed to be great and brave, Arthur.”

“I don't want you to be great or brave. Lord knows you already are too much of both to your own good.” He murmurs, holding his hand tighter, still refusing to look back at him, blue eyes and earnest face. “I don't want you to change, I just want _this_.”

He feels the ghost of Merlin's smile against the side of his neck.

“You are all I ever needed to love you too. It's true now, and it was true back then.” Arthur closes his eyes and waits for the other shoe to drop. Merlin can't just be sweet, he has to be an ass about it, call him a prat or something. “Hell, I know that I'll be happy to not have to wait as long to kiss you.”

The grin is involuntary, it's just his natural response to his cheekiness.

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Not a chance, sire."

Time was a funny thing in the cave. They could have lived a lifetime here, he thinks. He feels stronger by the second, so he can hold tighter on Merlin's hand when the other's grip falters. It's hard not to wonder what a lifetime shared with Merlin would be like, even in here, even if he couldn't crown him, even if he couldn't see him.

His voice would be enough, his presence would be enough, the knowledge that no harm could reach him, even if the safe nest he had found is a long black corridor of stones and magic that he could barely see a palm ahead of him for the longest time.

And there, in the cold, hopeless dark there is just the same old temptation, whispered in a beloved voice, soft with defeat and heavy with premeditated loss.

“Turn around, Arthur.”

He's just too close to breaking, and if anyone in the world knows how to tempt a Prince of Camelot, it's Merlin. So he shuts his eyes and makes sure he can't see a thing as he turns to him, hands traveling up to his face before his lips move to steal any other traitorous words he might say from him, take his breath and give him his, until all they know is that perfect limbo where all that exist is them.

Time was a funny thing in the cave. He could have kissed Merlin for a millennial, and still it wouldn't feel like it had been enough. The kiss stretches into an eternity that sets fire to his chest, warms his heart and burns his lungs, and he needs air but he also needs Merlin, so he pushes a little more. The fool tastes of blueberries, and he can only picture how many he stole from his plate when delivering him meals. His hands holds onto Merlin's hair and he can't say which of them lets out that needy noise, but the need is mutual.

Still he needs air. Cursed air. He breaks the kiss, forcing himself to keep his eyes closed and leans his forehead against Merlin's, noses his cheek and along his jawline and down his neck. The cave echoes with their heavy breathing.

“Please, don't leave me.” He pleads again, and he hopes, he _prays_ that this time he will listen.

Instead, Merlin presses his face against Arthur's, and breathes like he needs to strengthen himself for the moment they are to face.

“Find me, and I'll never leave you again.”

It's a promise, he knows, but it's not the one he wanted to hear. Still, Merlin hugs him, pulls him tightly against his body, and, finally, he gets his wish, because as Arthur hugs him back, this side of desperate, his hand finds a warm moistness that is too familiar. Arthur opens his eyes in horror, scarlet stained hands moving to hold onto Merlin's arms, to put some distance so he can try and make sense of what's happened.

“Oh my God.” He lets out, breathless and gutted.

He is smiling — heaven knows how this man can still smile, despite everything — and the smile seems to show how hollow his cheeks have grown, skin sinking in the places flesh is lacking. He's thinner, so much thinner, and cold as death. On his side, directly opposite to the one Arthur walked into the cave clutching so his insides didn't fall out, Merlin bleeds his life away as if that didn't hurt at all.

That's when Arthur realizes: the magical explanation was bullshit. Merlin just couldn't let him turn and see the sacrifice he was committing even as they walked. He had traded his life for this spell, and he had traded his health for his and he could not bend the laws of magic to not demand their price.  
Blue eyes start to glow golden, and he sinks his fingernails in the too-fragile shoulders.

“Merlin—”

“ ** _Rhethoen toa._** ”

He tries to scream, but it's like he's being blown away, torn from Merlin and into the blinding light

When his eyes open again, he's laid on his bed, years in the past, and a younger Merlin is opening the curtains with a bright smile.

“Rise and shine!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How could you do that?!” Arthur demands, holding onto Merlin's arms so tightly it hurts, but he bears it because he knows he must be holding him just as tightly as the waves of concern rise on his chest and lap over each other. He never saw his prince cry, never this openly or desperate and desolate, so Merlin holds him as if he could put whatever broke in him back together. “Oh, God, how could you do that to me?!”

Merlin didn't know what he had expected, really. Arthur was always a riddle by mornings, and his reaction was always something that kept him on his toes.

If there had been so much as a pea under his pillow he would wake up in the foul mood of a starving chimera, maybe insult him and throw a pillow at him while at it. If he had a pleasant dreams, he would smile and greet him warmly, which, granted, was great and he prefers over the other option, yet usually leads to Arthur deciding today was a good day for a hunting trip, and hunting trips — or any such occasion in which anyone sees bloody fit to throw their legs around a horse and ride to the woods — always end with magical beasts trying to kill him or a sorceress cursing them and years of Merlin's life being cut short by the stress if it all.

Still, his favorite mornings were never contingent on whatever bloody nonsense Arthur could come up with, but on how he would react when the sunlight hit his face, how his face would scrunch up as he greeted him (always just the right side of cheery to be infuriating to someone being dragged fresh out of bed) and how we would cling to his sheets when he tugged at them, like a wrestling game. If he would fall on his ass, all the better. He would call out his name and Merlin would smile fondly as he ran away from his reach.

This, however, could not be chalked up to either of those mornings.

Merlin's smile died instantly when he turned from the windows to the prince behind him, giving way to bubbling concern as Arthur rose from the mattress and sat on his heels, fists gripping the sheets behind him, tears streaming down his cheeks and looking equal parts confused, torn and betrayed. He was shaking and it did not take a genius to see he was trying to hold whimpers in him with little success.

“Sire?” He finally manages, taking a careful step towards him. Discreetly, Merlin reaches towards the prince with his magic, trying to find injury or spell, but that too only confuses him because the only magic he feels in Arthur is his own, but greater and more mature and not his. However did such a familiar and foreign magic get in Arthur? “Are you okay?”

“You utter idiot!” Arthur screams in response, and Merlin backs away quickly, to avoid any physical attack or flying pillow because his voice promises hurt of the highest caliber, hands quickly rising to protect his face if nothing else. Yet, all that Arthur does is say: “How could you?!" and buries his hand in his face to muffle his sobs.

Oh, God. He would have rather had him throw his mace at his head than _this_. Merlin stands, frozen, hands up in hopes to placate Arthur, watching him cry like one of the heartbroken widows that would stand over their husband's graves back in Ealdor during their burial, salting the earth below with their tears to be sure the soil that was sure to cover their bodies would be as barren as their hearts had came to be after such a loss. Still, he stares in horror at the sight of his crying friend, trying to make sense of whatever the hell is happening. What's he supposed to do? He cannot understand what sort of dream could warrant such a reaction, and he hasn't lost anyone in long months, not even a green knight fresh on patrol, Merlin saw to that with his bits of magic here and there.

"Arthur, what—?"

“How could you do that?!” Arthur demands, holding onto Merlin's arms so tightly it hurts, but he bears it because he knows he must be holding him just as tightly as the waves of concern rise on his chest and lap over each other. He never saw his prince cry, never this openly or desperate and desolate, so Merlin holds him as if he could put whatever broke in him back together. “Oh, God, how could you do that to me?!”

“Do what?” He asks, voice pitching highly in panic even though he's aiming for calming and this is certainly not calming. “Arthur, you're not making any sense.”

The prince doesn't budge, pulling back furiously to glare at him, in an enraged and hurt manner that frightens Merlin to his core, hands moving to hold onto his neckerchief, seeing to both his goals of choking him half to death and pull him closer as Merlin is forced to look upon Arthur's burning blue eyes and his burning blue eyes alone, which is almost enough to have him not miss oxygen at all now that his throat is too constricted to give it passage.

“Promise me.” He grits out, desperate and his voice lets through a bleeding heart in a way that has Merlin aching to lay his hands over his chest and try to mend the hurt underneath skin. “Promise me you won't ever put my life over yours, Merlin. Promise me.”

The warlock's mind halts at the request with a start, and the spell of a vulnerable prince so close he could almost feel worthy enough to touch him is broken by the shock, freezing his stretched hands just shy of holding onto Arthur's wrists soothingly. He cannot understand where this comes from, frowning in wonder and confusion that somehow the state he is in has to do with Merlin of all people. That can't be right. Arthur can't be crying because of _Merlin_ , that's ridiculous.  
Still, his own answer is weak and vulnerable when it comes out of his mouth, as if punched out out of him.

“I can't.”

He knew it had not been the answer his King wanted, but he didn't knew it would drive him to bend over himself in grief, crying thrice as hard and holding him even tighter as if he wanted to go through flesh and wrap his fingers around bone or something more.

  
“Merlin, promise me.” Arthur says, and it's not as much as saying as it is _begging_. Merlin has to blink tears he didn't know had been creeping to his eyes when faced with a pain he won't lie to ease. “I cannot lose you again, I need you to promise me.”

He chalks up the bits of information he's allowed to further examination; the breaking of Arthur's voice, the despair in his eyes, the word 'again', the sobbing, the heartbreak. It all asks for a clear mind to understand, and he doesn't have that at the moment.

“I cannot lose you at all, sire.” He replies, defiant and passionate, perking up to hold his ground over the one matter he holds sacred above all others. Arthur's life is his chief concern, he would gladly lay down his if it meant ensuring his prince would live. He had done it a thousand times. “I won't promise you a thing I won't keep."

Arthur howls at that, sounding like a man about to die — or one who wished he had — and just proceeds to cry harder, sinking his fingers on Merlin's tender flesh in ways that will leave his grip marked in the purple hues of bruises, he's sure, knees buckling until he's sunk to the floor and pulls Merlin with him, closer to his chest by the moment.  
It's as if he wants to pull him into his chest, wrap him in his arms until he's protected from the world and so close to him that no one can rip him from his hands ever again. It's overwhelming, but it reaches that hopeful and longing part of him that instead of fighting Arthur's hold craves to lean on it, leaning his head against Arthur until his cheek rests against the blonde's tear stricken one, who for his turn noses against his hair and proceeds to whisper his pleas against it. Small, gentle things like 'please', 'don't leave' and 'Merlin' in the saddest voice he's ever heard, caving his resolve little by little in a way that makes Merlin bite back his words and try to soothe his prince into silence.

“I'm here, Arthur.” He murmurs, lips brushing against his temple, indulging in such a tiny way to show Arthur his affection and stifling the blossoming heart when the prince leans against the touch before burying his face in the crook of his neck. Gangly fingers dare to run through golden hair, his body shifts to better accommodate him and soon enough their legs are tucked in between each other's and a servant cradles a King of prophecy against his body as if that was nothing at all, and truly, it isn't. He's Arthur's, even if Arthur himself doesn't know it. Holding him is last on the list of things he’s willing to do for Arthur. “I'm here. I didn't go anywhere.”

He keeps holding onto Arthur until he cries himself back to sleep, exhaustion taking over his body after shaking so violently to his sobs he feared he might break. He had certainly looked like he wanted to break.

Merlin sits there for a moment longer, a crumpled man in his arms and feeling more lost than ever before, looking down upon his prince's face before bringing a hand to brush the lingering tears from his cheeks. He tries once more to reach for the brand of magic that is his and not his inside of Arthur hoping it will provide him with answers, but that too eludes him. Let him rest, it seems to say, don't leave him alone, as if he would ever consider doing such a thing. So he settles on sighing tiredly to himself, holding him a moment longer against his chest before spelling him into bed, tucking the blankets around him in a too overzealous manner that is only an excuse for him to stall before finally gathering the strength to leave the room, if even for a moment.

 _You said you wouldn't_ , the magic accuses him, and Merlin bites his lips before marching onwards.

* * *

When he sleeps, he dreams of the cave. Being knelt once more on it's damp and hard ground, how the cold seeped through stone and into his bones until he could hardly do anything but shiver.

Except this time his back was turned to the light and he was turned to Merlin.

Not the Merlin who greeted him joyfully in his bedroom, full of lies and deception and an innocence to his youth that he _knew_ he would come to ruin, but the Merlin who has unrevealed his tale to his ears in the walk up the mountain, the one who had held his hand and kissed him senseless.

The Merlin he loved for so long and that loved him back.

“You're sad.” He says, smiling gently but tiredly, bringing a warm hand to cup his cheek. Arthur leans into his hold, frowning as he does. Last time, Merlin had been cold. Yet, as he watches the known face, those blue eyes that seem to look into his soul, the thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone is warm. “I didn't mean to hurt you.” 

The one he had lost.

It's hard work to make himself crush that blooming hope that creeps up his chest, but Arthur is good at hard work, good at being cruel to himself, good at not allowing himself things.

"You are not here, are you?"

He wants above else for the answer to be yes, but he's not delusional and he must be honest and he is—

“Only in your head, Arthur.” He says, apologetically, hesitating a moment as if worrying the information in his mind before pulling his hand away mournfully. “As you choose to remember me.”

Arthur holds his wrist as he moves to tuck his hand on his lap once again, forcefully interwining their fingers together, as he moves forward into his space until his forehead rests against Merlin's (warm) one once again. He closes his eyes, even though he knew there was never a point to that to begin with, yet hoping against all logic that not looking at him would bring him back, would return Merlin from the cave of his memory and into his arms.

“I asked you not to leave. I needed you not to leave me.” Arthur manages past the lump to his throat, mastering his tears before he cries even more and holds Merlin's gaze, wishing he would find anything in the light blue besides sadness and acceptance. “Why would you ever do that to me?”

Merlin smiles, averting his eyes to the floor.

“You know why."

He did, but knowing didn't make any of this _fair_. Because Merlin knew too, he must have known, he always knew more than Arthur, was always making decisions while Arthur stumbled in the dark blindly, and he must have done this all despite the fact that—

  
“How dare you think I would want a second chance in life without you?”

“You are not without me." Merlin reminds him gently, but it's not the same.

“I'm alone.” He insists, presses the matter again until he can't deny it, damns that even when conjured by his own head Merlin can still be this stupidly selfless, this obtuse and daft. “You left me."

“Give him a chance, Arthur.” Merlin asks, and it's unfair, because now he knows he's asked so very little considering all that he gave that it gets harder to deny him. “He cannot share this burden if you don't let him in.”

“You were the one pulling the strings all along, Merlin.” Arthur says, voice rising in urgency and loss, and it all feels like this cave. Dark and cold and uncertain, he could walk for hours and he would not know how to leave it if Merlin hadn't guided him to the light, but now he wasn't there to guide him through the years he was expected to relieve. “How am I supposed to do this without you?”

The boy shakes his hand, jovial face and high cheekbones and pale skin, bright blue eyes and a lip that does it's best to twist into an encouraging smile, shoulders that refuse to bend to the world's weight.

He should have given him a crown. He should have given him a title. He should have commissioned statues and paintings of him, he should have committed his likeliness to eternity and not only his memory. Arthur should have given him Albion, he should have given him the world.

“He'll be with you when you're awake.” Merlin says, soft as a lullaby and equally as calming. “Trust him to trust you, to look after you.” His thumb draws patterns in the back of his hand, he tightens his hold on him, like another silent vow. “And if you strength fails, knows that I'll be with you here when you're asleep.”

He closes his eyes then, tries to coax his lungs into breathing and himself into being strong, and still it's all for naught until soft lips touch his, feather-light and hesitant. Arthur can't help the mournful moan that leaves him, nor can he help but deepen the kiss from the gentle bittersweet thing Merlin offers him into a passionate promise no tongue holds enough words to express.

Time remains a funny thing in the cave, and the kiss is so different and so similar to their last that when they part, his next words come to no surprise.

“What should I do?”

The questions carries over the cold cave, echoes through the dark where he had found and lost the man he had spent the better half of his life loving from apart.

He sounds defeated, but that's only because he is. There’s no shame admitting it when he’s so clearly beaten.

Through all his sorrow and pain and resentment, he knows, deep in his heart Merlin only meant the best for him, only hoped for the great King he had helped him become, and if himself and his fate meant that much to Merlin, if Albion was such a golden dream that he would lay his life down without protest for the three, he could not fail him.  
Gentle and proud, Merlin smiles at him, and it's enough to let him know he made the right decision, no matter his selfish reasons. His hands squeeze his gently.

“Let's plan what we can.”

* * *

He sends word Prince Arthur is indisposed and will be staying in bed for today. He assures Gaius and Uther that it is nothing but a cold and he will be better by tomorrow and though his mentor arches his brow knowingly, he lets the matter go until they're alone in the physician's chambers to discuss it.

Morgana pulls him aside upon seeing the weariness and worry etched into his expression, and they sit alone for a moment as he explains that Arthur is unwell emotionally and he can't fathom why, smiling when Gwen brings him a mug of tea and honey to cheer his spirits and another to take to Arthur. It’s a breath of fresh air he did not expect to need so early into the day, but that fills him with some amount of vigor for the rest of the hours he is to face, like being given a flickering lamp and being asked to cross the endless dark.

He squeezes Gwen’s hand and promises to tell them both first whatever happens before returning to the room.

Arthur tosses restlessly on the bed and his face is twisted with that heartbroken tension he can't understand. Merlin lays a hand over his forehead, to brush golden hair away from it, and Arthur turns towards his touch once again.

“Merlin.” He calls miserably. “Don't leave me.”

He cannot deny him.

Against all good reason, Merlin takes off his shoes and climbs in the bed by Arthur, holding the Prince against him.

The man calms and his head lays over his chest, his ear finds his left breast and Merlin lets him sleep listening to the beats of his own heart.

Eventually, he sleeps too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Find which year you're in.’ he recalls being told, ‘What moment of time did the old magic saw fit for you to fix? If you know that, you know what went wrong.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, people! I'm so sorry for taking so long to update this fic, because I was working on my Geraskier works, as well as finishing my other Merthur work ‘In case you don't live forever', but I do plan on making a triple update to make up for it!  
> It'll be a chapter today, one tomorrow and a third one on sunday, which is sort of crazy but I'm very excited about.  
> So, yeah, be on the lookout for the new chapters and maybe (most certainly, who am I kidding, I've become an addict to these two idiots) two new works in this next month!  
> See ya, and hope you enjoy this chapter!

Arthur felt himself rise again into wakeful awareness lulled by Merlin's words, even though he kept his eyes as closed as he could and his mind as empty as he managed.

 _It shouldn't be hard_ , Merlin's voice rang around his mind a break from his incessant (albeit gentle) chiding and the tremble to it implying a smile, and though he sounded so far away, he was baited into thinking of an answer, and as he did, his body drew in a breath and his nagger of a manservant nudged him one last time and the veils of sleep were yanked off of him.

Once upon a time, he would have never resented Merlin anything.

Now, however, as he felt the mattress beneath him, the sheet above him, each of his muscles and limbs, the soreness of his throat after he had sobbed unlike he had ever done before, only having to him a heavy heart and the consciousness that the world he was expected to face was terrible, he found it easier and easier to resent him.

He didn't want to, but it was impossible not to when he laid in this bed, aching for things he couldn’t have like Tantalus; made to stand through a second chance side by side with a Merlin he was terrified to confide in, less he was to dump the slow building weight and stress and paranoia all at once at him, and lulled to sleep to thought of the depths and darkness of the cave where _his_ Merlin would be waiting, apparently, knowing all too well that whenever he felt the most comfortable by his side, the dream would fade and he would be forced to wake.

He turns, slow and mindful, with the same tense awareness as he had held a thousand times before in hunts and patrols where not to spook a beast that could tear his throat out if he made the wrong move was in his best interest, but this time it's all in order to not perturb the boy asleep by him. Merlin looks positively exhausted, laid over soft mattress and fine linen, some mockery of the concept of rest, lips slightly parted to let out even breaths.

Even in his sleep he doesn't looks relaxed. He looks like he’s waiting for the sky to fall upon him, fitful sleep and eyes ready to open anytime. A sharp enough sound would wake him and it would be back to his odyssey.

There are moments alright, moments he could commit to memory, moments like this one where the afternoon sun falls upon his pale face and shines upon his black hair and makes him groan softly and shift away from it's light, Merlin's at his lightest and that constitutes a sight so precious it takes everything from Arthur to not merely hold him in his hands and keep him, forever.

Everything and the fluttering worry that has his brows scrunched even in his sleep, lines of worry etching themselves to his face in times he deserves only peace and tense mumbles where only the displeased groans at the sun should be allowed — the weight of the world crushes him even here, on Arthur's bed (or maybe it should be, _especially_ here in Arthur's bed?) and he cannot keep him from telepath dragons and ancient druidic prophecies and his own self-sacrificing resolve.

As if the revelations steals sunlight as well as hope, the golden glow fades behind a cloud and he is left only with a Merlin, dressed in the worn clothes from the beginning, with the red neckerchief and a face so young and thinly sharp he could be mistaken for an elf or a fey, for he surely has the magic for it.

 _The magic_.

Arthur's hand is sprawled over his chest since he turned, and, if he allows himself to focus enough, he can feel through clothes and through the impossibility of the situation, the soft thrumming of Merlin's magic crossing flesh and bones and fabric to reverberate against his fingertips, as if answering a call.

He never felt it before.

Maybe he wasn't paying attention, maybe he was oblivious, maybe he never allowed himself to actually touch his manservant as he did now, maybe it's what's Merlin now answering to his call for the Merlin of then.  
In any other circumstances, this would be the dream and the cave would be the harsh reality he dozed away from. He was laid against Merlin's chest, but it wasn't the one he wanted to. He knows that he knows him well, he is painfully aware of how much he had loved him through the years; in silence, one of the three best kept secrets of Camelot — so well kept it manages to stand side by side with Merlin's two and still hold it's ground — a candle left to burn itself out near the window, quiet and bright and capable of burning a house to the ground if push came to shove, to consume a whole person, and oh, _how it did_.

When he looks upon this boy (because he is a boy, as he himself had been, but times changed him) he is able to see the missing years in-between his features. He can notice it on the lack of lines hinting on appearing around his mouth, how his hair has yet to grow longer, the hard earned muscles have still to make themselves at home around his bones and the weighted sureness, still without that resolve that could drive him to be ruthless, to kill — all for him, all in his name — nothing of that is there, there's only the innocence his own Merlin had been stripped off years ago.

If he was to sink his hand past his flesh and follow the buzzing energy, follow the magic down to his heart and deeper still into his soul he would not find the toughened man who had giggled in wonder when he had finally been honest, finally been known for his entirety, fingers in-between his, knuckles feeling the brush of Arthur's lips.

 _‘I love you’_ , one had whispered, _‘I love you’_ , the other had answered. The words repeated in an elated loop to the rhythm of their breaths. _‘I love you’_ s to fill an eternity, but it had only lasted a couple of hours. He had needed three times as many hours, five times as many, _a proper eternity_.

Arthur close his eyes to brace himself against the memory, even as he feels the warmth of those words pressed against the skin of his shoulders, feels Merlin's nose brushing the shell of his ear, his breath amidst his hair. This was not unfair only to him, he realized with a grudging understanding, Merlin had also made things thrice as unfair to himself, forever second best to the man he had once been in a time he had yet to live to.

How could a man say ‘I love you, but I'll never love you like I loved the you who died to deliver me here'? How does another decide that he will settle for those words, that that will have to be enough, even if he himself is not enough for the other?

Arthur moved forward, taking the risk of having him wake up and question what was going on, hoisting himself over him on his palms until his face is hovering over him, face a younger version of himself that he does not feel comfortable hovering above, the too young reflection of a man he has lost, lowering himself slowly until his lips brush his forehead feathery light, smiling in despite of himself when Merlin tries to bat him away.

“I love you.” He whispers against the dark mop of his hair, tries the words out in his tongues and finds it is still truthful, closing his eyes and picturing the cave still fresh from his dreams before opening them again. He still loves him, both of him, even if he loves one more than the other. He can’t let Merlin become the one he would never really have. “And I will not lose you again, no matter your best efforts.”

With that, he creeps from the bed, swallowing down the endearing sensation that creeps up his chest when the smaller man whines and turns on the bed, a hand seemingly seeking from the retreating warmth of his body. Arthur smiles, sets the blankets over his shoulders and sets about dressing himself (years of his manservant sneaking away for days on end to see to secret sorcery matters did wonders for his self-reliance), stealing a slice of cheese from the plate of breakfast he had been brought before his fit as he set about the papers on the desk for clues.

 _‘Find which year you're in.’_ he recalls being told, _‘What moment of time did the old magic saw fit for you to fix? If you know that, you know what went wrong’_.

His hands pass another reminder of a Knighting ceremony that will take place tomorrow night, ready to start grumbling about what a useless search this has been when his eyes fall on the reminder of the hearing taking place this afternoon, his eyes flicker to the date and his breath gets stuck in the back of his throat, and he knows he’s holding the slice of paper too roughly, watches it crumple under his hands as he falls back in his chair, loud enough to disturb Merlin even if he did not notice it to be so at the time, eyes losing focus as he struggles to make sense of where Merlin placed him, or rather _when._

It’s impossible not to remember, impossible not to bend under the pressure of what this would release upon them, like hell dogs and betrayals and too many secrets to grasp in both hands.

Today, in the hearing a herder from the northern plains would come forward to tell the king that three nights back he had camped beneath the walls of Idirsholas. Today, in the hearing he would tell them he saw smoke rise from the citadel no one had stepped into in 300 years.  
In another time, Arthur would have thought this to be superstitious nonsense, would have asked what was the purpose of calling knights to investigate superstitious nonsense. He knew better now.  
He's been delivered from just before Morgrause and Cenred's attack.  
Innocent people, good people will die, Morgana will leave, Merlin will try to kill her.

It is the beginning of the end, for the both of them; the last blow to himself and what lays the base for his paranoia regarding betrayal, the last scrap of hope Merlin will lose before he starts to settle in the bloody instrument of his glory.

“Arthur?”

A hand, gentle and warm rests against his shoulder, and though he isn't fully aware of what's happening around him, too stuck in the vortex of despair the revelation crafted around him, he knows this is Merlin, knows the bed is now empty and that he must be worried, knows his breath is quickening and that he's grabbing the table helplessly, trying to see a way to fix all the things Merlin couldn't.

“You don't have to work.” His manservant says again, his other hand now laying over one of his, thumb caressing the white knuckles and easing his hold until his hand lays on Merlin's own, the warmth leaves his shoulder and he leans towards the receding touch, but Merlin merely shifts to do the same with his left hand. “I got your father to give you a day off. You can rest until tomorrow.”

A day free of work. It's the perfect opportunity to rethink everything he can remember of the attack, to think of a strategy to fix everything, to prevent all his losses.

He's ready to force his feelings, to bottle everything and move into the mindset being a King had demanded out of him before he looked up at Merlin, hair in disarray, face still clouded by sleep and another surge of protectiveness overruns him, ties knots at his throat that won't let him speak, tightens his fingers on the others' own.

Not to let Merlin do this alone. Not to see his innocence writhe and die under secret bloodbaths again.

An earnest “I'm sorry” escapes his lips before he can think it through. Merlin frowns, like he knew he would, but not like his Merlin would, not with that cold seriousness to his eyes, but with open, genuine worry.

“For what?”

Arthur shakes his head, feels the tears come. Thinks of all the men he will lose when the Knights of Medhir march against Camelot, thinks of losing Morgana.

“For everything.”

He's scaring him. Arthur's scaring him, he knows that when Merlin squeezes his hand once, tentative. But he's not scared for himself, as he damn well should, he's only scared for—

“Arthur, what's going on?”

“I don't know what I should do, Merlin.” He whispers, shaking his head, sounding frantic even to his own ears. ”I don't know how to fix this, any of this.”

Silence hangs upon them, stretching over the seconds as Arthur fights against the tears and the fear and the _knowledge_ he wishes he didn't have.

“Maybe you should go to bed, Arthur. Rest some more.”

“Come with me?”

Merlin doesn't reply, merely nods and helps him up, supports his weight and walks with him back to the bed, holding him as if that would keep him safe from the future haunting him, Arthur's head on his shoulder.

_‘From there, it's just hoping we don't get it wrong again.’_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time was supposed to be different.
> 
> He hears the boy behind him murmur words he now knows to be a spell.
> 
> It was supposed to be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update two out of three, my dudes! I'm on a roll and very excited and also, decided to add a fourth update that will be a new work (yes, another one) that will be a Lady of the Lake AU where Arthur finds out about Freya!  
> So yeah, see you tomorrow and hopefully Sunday too!
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

“He is really strange.” Merlin says, folding an extra shirt and packing a loaf of bread in case this mission goes wrong, as they always tend to do.

“He's acting strange, but he is strange too.” As soon as he shoved both items down his leather bag his hands take over the function of waving strangeness into a shapeless form that doesn’t stick, before leaning over the table, frowning at the wood. “There's magic in him, a magic like mine but it's not mine, it's more powerful… More mature.”

“I could investigate through my books, if it'll help ease your mind.” Gaius offers, watching in pity as Merlin's slumps in his chair defeated, halfway through packing the essentials for the ride to come. “But there's only one being who could probably tell such magic apart.”

Merlin groans miserably at the implication of taking this to Kilgharrah. The both of them are most certainly not in the best terms and his trust on the other's council is not the most steady, particularly as parts of him twist deeply wrong every time they have a conversation, and he does not feel like being manipulated when it comes to Arthur knowing he has tried to poison him (and to an extent succeeded) against most of the people he yearned to trust.

No, he decides as he stands up, he would not involve the old, cunning dragon on this.

He and Arthur were grown men and they could surely talk this out, and Merlin was the most powerful sorcerer to ever exist if push came to shove in aiding Arthur to be more emotionally in touch with the concept of sharing what he's feeling.

“And now we have to ride to see some ruins with a fire burning in them.” Merlin lets out, half annoyed and half frustrated as he bows to grab hold of his road-weathered bag. “Why is Uther so worried?”

“Because the Knights of Medhir are a force to be reckoned with.”

“Do you believe the story as well?”

“It's more than a story, Merlin.” His mentor replies, in that grave way that might be either succeeded by a recrimination or by very important information, so he halts and turns to look at him, taken aback as he crosses his arm. “Some 300 years ago, seven of Camelot's knights were seduced by a sorcerer's call. One by one, they succumbed to her power. At her command, they became a terrifying and brutal force that rode through the lands leaving death and destruction in their wake.”

Oh. So _nothing_ about that sounded any good.

“What happened?” He asks, concerned.

“It was only after the sorcerer herself was killed that the Knights of Medhir finally grew still.” Gaius goes on, before turning his eyes back to him, drilling the _'it's your destiny and responsibility to fix this'_ look that meant absolutely nothing of this was, in fact, any good. “Merlin, if what Joseph says is true, then something has awoken them, and I fear for each and every one of us.”

Lovely. Strange magic, crying Arthur, immortal mystical knights of death and destruction.

What could go wrong?

* * *

The amount of things that could go wrong was overwhelming, and, truly, though Arthur was making a grand effort into looking composed and well, he felt like screaming bloody murder and tearing his hair out.

Was that what going insane felt like? Was this what Merlin had to live through all these years, only having Gaius and a cryptic dragon to talk to during all the tribulations Camelot had offered him?

Maybe he did deserve a day off, after all.

Maybe, after this was done and he finally had a proper talk with him and Morgana, he could give him a day off and they could all sit back, drink half the wine the castle had to boast off and contemplate how fate and life and everything was fucked.

It sounded like a good idea. He liked that thought very much.

“Morgana!” He calls, catching a glimpse of her green dress and raven hair expertly pinned as she makes her way to what he assumes to be her chambers, walks towards her as she stops and turns to him with concern on her face. He cannot tell if it's genuine still, but he likes to think it so.

“Arthur.” She smiles, before a frown replaces it, her hand laying on his arm. “Are you feeling, better? Merlin said you had recovered, but Uther wouldn't listen to me about letting you rest one more day. Shouldn't you have ridden to Idirsholas?”

“I am better, mostly.” It wasn't a full lie, so he didn't need to feel conflicted about that part as he offered her an equally kind smile that had her tilting her head to the side in confusion. “I'm riding out now, but I wanted to ask you if you wouldn't want to have lunch in my chambers when I come back? We haven't shared a meal in forever, and I wanted to talk with you.”

It's all so honest it scares him, but he feels lighter now then he felt this last year.

For her, she hadn't shared a meal with him in a few weeks, but for him it had been years, years in which she spent trying to kill him and that he spent regretting not being kinder.

When her face softens in fondness, he knows this should have been the way he treated her far before this incident, far before Morgrause. His kind-hearted, brave and smart sister, whom he had never gave a cause to trust him and who had been eaten up by fear. She merely nods her head, her eyes glimmering with that old familiarity growing up together had brought them.

“I would love to.”

“I'll see you when I return, then.” Arthur replies, eager and slightly anxious because he knows this might not happen, if he doesn't do the right thing he might just come back to have her disappear again, whisked away by her sister. So he does what he wishes he could have done more the first time around, when he didn't knew he was taking the wonder that was Morgana for granted in his life, and hugs her tightly, feels her confusion once more as she hesitates before hugging him back, kisses the side of her head and steps back, walking backwards towards the door with a bright grin. “I trust you to be able to get your hands on one of the King's favorite bottles of Mercian wine for us?”

Morgana turns into pure mischief, the picture of innocence if not for that spark to her eyes that promises trouble.

She laughs.

“Have I ever been unworthy of that trust?”

When they both turn, his heart is slightly heavier.

* * *

As their party rides through the woods, Merlin's apprehension is as clear and palpable as it was the first time, but he doesn't mock him this time as he did before.

This is no bedtime story, this is Arthur's last chance on fixing things before they spiral out of control.

He searches in him for the scraps of his Merlin he had been allowed to keep, the vague buzzing of magic underneath his heart that kept him warm now that his whole being was cold with dread, waves of silent reassurances that might as well have been imagined by himself but still inspire him enough to slow his horse enough for Merlin to reach his side, shooting him a questioning look.

“I don't have a good feeling about this, Merlin.” He says evenly, eyes on his. “Keep close to me, just in case.”

His servant nods.

“Of course, sire.”

He keeps his words as they ride towards the fortress, tentatively walk into the ruins, Arthur positioning them as strategically possible to make a quick escape if needed as they enter the chambers.

“Stick together.” He commands, checking the ashes of the fire, his eyes turning their focus on Merlin as the raven haired man by his side does the same. “It seems this part of Joseph's story was true.”

Merlin is the first to turn his head back towards the entrance and Arthur follows his lead, finding the seven ghostly figures of former knights standing there.

“And that part of Gaius' story too.” Merlin mumbles, right before Arthur pulls him to behind his own body, raising his sword just as the Knights of Idirsholas draw their own.

He knows they won't die, and that is an advantage as his party fights the undead knights, and he's sure to scream orders to evade them and go for the entrance, but his focus is entirely to keep their blades away from Merlin this time, keeping him behind him always and fighting thrice as ferociously as he had done before.

Fight, stab, repeat.

The bastards don't fall, but that isn't news to him and he works his way towards the door, slow and surely, with Merlin well protected behind his back. His party struggle to do the same but they follow his order either way, and he won't leave without them. This time he won't have to.

“Run, Merlin! I'll wait for the others! Go!”

“Not without you!”

He's ready to retort something along the lines of 'goddamit, will you stop being so stubborn and do what I say?!' when his eyes catch the scene unfolding on the other side of the room: a knight wearing the colors of Camelot falling, a sword to his throat and Arthur's breath gets stuck to his own.

No.

The others are too far away, he won't be able to go to them. Won't be able to help them. If he asks Merlin to use his magic to save them, they might tell Uther of him when this is over. Might run him through without even bothering to tell Uther. No, no, no, this time was supposed to be different!

“Arthur!” He hears Merlin scream as he's shoved away to the side, hitting the wall and sees Merlin stumble away from the blade of a Knight that was about to strike Arthur dead.

He roars before meeting his sword again, sees that the old blade is stained with red, and holds off his attacks as best as he can, guiding Merlin towards the entrance once more but the loyal fool still insists on waiting for him in the doorway. The undead knights approach him, a semicircle of men he can not hope to win, and Arthur takes the time to take notice with a heavy heart, his bravery and certainty wavering, the fallen bodies of Camelot's men behind them.

 _This time was supposed to be different_.

He hears the boy behind him murmur words he now knows to be a spell.

 _It was supposed to be different_.

When Merlin's hand holds his shoulder and pull him back out of the room, it's all a perfect flashback and the rock above the entrance crumbles.

* * *

They run into the woods like the first time, but this time their feet can't carry them as fast as Arthur's thoughts pass through his brains, further and further away from the ruins.

He tried to keep the knights alive, but they died anyways.

Everything had played much the same as the first time.

When Merlin stops ahead of him, Arthur slows his steps as well, watches as he bend for breath knowing his own isn't much better off, labored and desperate, and his eyes fall to his arm, looking for the one thing he might have succeeded on preventing, minimal as it was.

His heart falls to the bottom of his stomach.

He tried to keep the knights alive, but they died anyways. He tried to keep Merlin from harm, but—

“What happened to your arm?" He asks, knowing full well what happened.

A Knight had cut him and Arthur, per usual, had failed.

“Oh, I must have caught in on something.” Merlin answers, looking at the wound through the tear on his clothes.

“Let me see.” He says, already ripping the bottom of his tunic while Merlin is too busy taking off his jacket, his hands holding his arm expertly as he wraps the strip of fabric around the wound of his arm, as tender as an apology.

“You ruined it.” He complains either way, when he connects the pieces of where his bandage came from, but his eyes are more intense this time around, trying to piece this newfound gentleness with the crying of the night before.

Arthur doesn't have the heart to pretend he hasn't changed, to play along to whom he has been.

“It's just a shirt, Merlin.” He says, meaning every word and willing him to understand it to be so with his eyes, “I'm more concerned about you.”

It's the same as the first time, he guesses, though he hadn't seen the look on his face back in the cave, convinced that looking back would kill him — still, it's the same. He looks as he sounded: as if the thought Arthur might value his life as ardently as Merlin valued his was strange, foreign, unthinkable.

He fights the urge to say ‘you know you are loved, don't you?’, fights the urge to tell him how most of Camelot adores him to pieces and how afraid he had been at the time he would fall for Morgana or for Gwen or any other girl, that they would run away together and that Arthur would be left alone to cope without him.

Instead, Merlin puts back his jacket, and Arthur doesn't ask about any other survivors as he picks up his sword again.

“We need to get back to Camelot.” He echoes his decision of years ago.

They go in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is it?”
> 
> He only nods his head towards the space in front of him and Merlin jogs into the palace, stops by his side and takes in breathless and frightened the sight of people passed out on the staircase.
> 
> “They're all fast asleep.” He says, breathless. “Must be some kind of sickness.”
> 
> Arthur doesn't say anything.

They arrive in the Main Square to three guards, on the ground, motionless.

Merlin dismounts at the city entrance, worried and ready to put his physician's training to good use, but Arthur is faster than him, sheathing his sword and kneeling by one of the men, propping the youngest in a sitting position against the wall. He takes in a breath, pushing down the fear of a slaughter having taking place when they hadn't been here, thinks of a trap or something equally as awful, thinks of Gaius and Morgana and Gwen and dares to ask:

“Are they dead?”

“No.” Arthur replies, sure and reassuring, though he looks as the courtyard as if the scene itself was a ghost. “They're breathing.”

“What's happened to them?”

The Prince turns to look at him, but makes a point to avert his gaze, to not meet Merlin's eyes and to hide his face as much as possible under his hair.

He's hiding something from him.

Merlin knew he had been hiding something since yesterday morning, he could see in the line of his face and on his changed demeanor, but now, in front of magical threats he couldn't quite understand, Merlin finds himself more and more terrified of what could be so terrible that Arthur would keep it from him even in a situation like this.

He lets out a half-hearted ‘I don't know’ that's almost too low to be heard, and stands, breaking into a quick jog into the Square, running past all the guards strewn about, laid and unresponsive.

Unsure and scared, Merlin follows.

He doesn't blink, barely spares a glance around the known faces of men he's trained fallen to the ground, doesn't turn as a horse-drawn cart comes into the square, doesn't stop when Merlin does to check upon the driver fast asleep.

Arthur would never do this.

He cares for his people, Merlin knows that deep in his bones, as surely as he knows his Prince's eyes are blue and that he loves him.

“I'll get Gaius.” He says, looking up to the staircase, thinking he wouldn't be there, but Arthur stands by the open door to the palace, waiting for him silently, face set and solemn. “What is it?”

He only nods his head towards the space in front of him and Merlin jogs into the palace, stops by his side and takes in breathless and frightened the sight of people passed out on the staircase.

“They're all fast asleep.” He says, breathless. “Must be some kind of sickness.”

Arthur doesn't say anything.

* * *

Arthur can't think of a way to say it.

Doesn't know how to tell him he knows what this is, that he has lived it before, doesn't know how to tell Merlin he knows he has magic and that so does Morgana, doesn't know what to say to keep him from giving her a waterskin with Hemlock when he figures it all out.

Arthur can't think of a way to say it, so he doesn't say anything.

He walks ahead, to the Physician's chambers, barely remembers to pretend he doesn't know where his father is and that he is alright, or as alright as everyone else placed under a sleeping spell is, opens the door and steps through and watches as Merlin runs in and past him towards the old man passed out over his worktable.

“Gaius!” He calls, lays a hand on his arm and shakes him gently, trying to coax him out of the unnatural sleep before the realization comes to him, final and on edge. “It must be the work of magic.”

Arthur nods once, but Merlin doesn't see it, his back turned to him, his focus still on Gaius. The prince allows him to fret a while longer over the man that's a father in all but name to him, before cutting the silence after the warlock heaves a relieved sigh.

“We should find my father.” He says, phrases it like a suggestion, not like something urgent, remembering that's how they stumbled on Morgana the last time.

Merlin looks over his shoulder at him as if he's mad or enchanted or not himself. Maybe he's all three, Arthur muses, before turning around and marching out of the physician's chambers.

For a while there's only his steps and he thinks he might have made a mistake so grave that now Merlin is convinced he's not really him or something equally as ridiculous (and plausible, if the stories of the cave are to be believed) but soon enough, the sound of his manservant's follow.

He makes a point to take the route to his father's chambers that goes past Morgana's and goes inside without hesitation, turning to the left before Merlin can even notice Gwen lying on the floor, picking her in his arm and moving her to the bed. they hear the curtain behind them move. He knows better than to pull his sword this time around, even as Merlin shoots him a panicked look, before looking back at the curtains, taking steady and silent steps towards the red fabric and pulling them open, holding a screaming Morgana by the shoulders when she tries to run away from him behind it.

“Hey, it's okay, it's okay! It's me! It's me, Morgana!” He says, louder than her screams, lowering his voice when she stops yelling, pulls away from his hold and realizes who he is. Arthur lets her breathe, squeezes her shoulders comfortingly, watches as Merlin takes a step forward upon recognizing the royal ward. “Are you alright? What's happened?”

“I didn't know it was you!” She says, frightened to the point she's near tears, her hands holding onto his arms and his holding her shoulders gently, rubbing them to calm her down.

"Well, it is.” He says, because he is a genius, and even through the confusion and fear from the situation, he can see Merlin pull his head back, brows furrowed as if to say 'really, Arthur?' and, maybe he deserves it, so he tries again: “Calm down, Morgana. You're okay.”  
She nods feebly to that, nails still digging into his chainmail, scared but no longer terrified.

“What happened?” Merlin finally asks, and she turns her head to see his face, concerned and tense but kind all the same.

“People were complaining, saying they weren't feeling well.” She says, drawing a sharp breath that sounds too close to a sob before fortifying herself to go on with her tale, shaking her head gently. “They started falling asleep. Everyone, everywhere I went.”

“Why were you hiding?” His manservant asks again, taking small steps towards her and his proximity seems to calm her much in the way it would to him. “Did someone come here?”

“No.” She says, shakes her head once. ”I… I just didn't know who you were.”

“Sorry about that.” Arthur offers, and both brunettes turn to look at him as if he's grown a second head to add to the strangeness of the situation. Well, now they were just being absurd, he wasn't that much of an ass before. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I…” She says, brows furrowed. “... think so.”

“Arthur, she's distressed.” Merlin intervened, and he knows he does that because he thinks he's about to ask how she's the only one awake.

He thinks he knows the answer, thinks it's about her magic and fears for her secret — he's partially right; but this time Arthur is the one with the answers, and unwilling to make Morgana feel any more distressed than she already is, so he only nods.

“It's alright, Morgana. You're safe, that's the important part.” Arthur says, and his voice rings with honesty and warmth as he stills his hands on her arms on the skin barely above her elbows, feels her shaking die out slowly. “I think our dinner will have to wait.” He confides, and tries to give her a smile that is anything like the one from earlier in the day, feels rewarded when she sniffles a little but smiles a weak curve of her lips back at him. “Come with us, I'm looking for my father, you shouldn't be alone.”

* * *

“Why is Arthur acting so strange?” Morgana asks quietly as they walk down the corridor, nearly side by side as Arthur leads the way with fast steps, as if he either knows where to find his father or wants to give the two of them some privacy, or both.  
“I'm not sure.” He says, before turning to her. “Don't worry, I won't say anything.”

“About what?”

“The illness.”

“That has nothing to do with me.”

“No, of course not, but you have magic.”

Morgana halts her steps and widens her eyes, looking at him terrified as she says in a high pitched voice:

“You haven't told anyone that!”

“No.” He denies quickly, trying to put her at ease. “And I won't tell Arthur, but… There must be something keeping you safe, and I think that must be it.”

Morgana seems to falter, like she's keeping something from him or uncertain about his explanation, and Merlin choses to believe it is the second, because the list of people he cares for keeping things from him is getting too large and he can't cope with so many secrets when he already has an absurd amount of them of his own to keep.

“Right.” She says, with a short nod of her head and a weak nervous smile.

“I found him!” Arthur calls from the end of the hallway, and they both jog towards Uther's chambers and away from the strange mistrust.

* * *

They walk into the room as Arthur lifts his father from his slumped position over the table. Facing him, unconscious once again, limp and unresponsive 

“See, he's all right.” Merlin tries to reassure him, with that bright cheery voice that's too optimistic and nothing like what he thinks the world is like, and the knowledge that he's lying to make him feel better and that the knights still died in Idirsholas and that he has to tell the both of them about knowing about their magic, about this spell, about finding a solution that is not poisoning Morgana, about everything but not everything or else Merlin will snap and Morgana might go with Morgrause anyway is too much and he finally snaps.

“He is not ‘all right’!” He screams as he turns to look at Merlin, enraged, tries not to feel too offended that Merlin seems to be more at ease handling his anger than his concern.

“He's just asleep.” He replies, cheeky and unperturbed and focused solely in fixing things without ever telling him about them, most likely.

“All we have to do is find the cure. A way to wake them.”

He has to tell them, he has to figure this out, he has to fix this and he's running out of time.

Arthur tries to reach for the warm buzzing of the remains of his Merlin in his chest, tries to think of the cave, his hand on his, his forehead against the spot in his back in-between his shoulder blades, but even though a spark travels to him, there's no warmth and wisdom to keep him calm or guide him now that he needs it the most.

Either way, both Merlin and Morgana seem to sense his attempt, Merlin's brows furrowing and eyes narrowing as if he is trying to analyze his own magic and Morgana tilts her head to the side, taking a slight step back, curious and confused in equal measures.

His eyes focus on Morgana more intently after that, after she has _sensed a spark of magic on him_ , and thinks if she doesn't trust him now in her own, then he'll admit it. If they both don't at least hint at magic, don't even bring it up, he'll tell them because clearly they won't ever trust him enough to tell _him_.

“You're the only one who's not been affected, Morgana.” He says, regretting almost immediately how harsh he sounds. “There must be a reason.”

Merlin looks at her in worry and Morgana looks at him for help, and in one second they have a small conversation with their eyes of which Arthur is not made privy to before his sister looks back at him.

“I don't know.” She answers, and she sounds just as scared as she did the first time.

Arthur can't help the bitter smile that leaves him, as he shakes his head and walks around the table.

Honestly, what did he expect?

He had two days to fix this, one of which he had spent the entirety either crying or sleeping in his bed like a coward, scared Merlin throughoutly with his outburst and with the fact that out of this world’s nowhere he had became a decent person overnight and interacted briefly on that same morning with Morgana to invite her for a lunch and expected those crumbs of decency to work down the barriers of years-long fear?

“That's all you keep saying!” He presses, almost begs her to say it, to _trust_ him. “You must know something!”

He knew he was demanding too much, but, _still_ , that was his sister — the girl he had grown up with, who had never trusted him to tell this secret or any other, who he had lost and who had hated him and tried to kill him so many times and he was only given two days to fix things with her and what was he expected to do? Lose her again? And the man he loved? So convinced he was nothing but destiny's tool that telling him he mattered more than a shirt had seemed absurd, so deeply shrouded in lies Arthur could hear his brain coming up with a thousand excuses, even though he knew which one he would pick, a thousand perfect little lies to make sure Arthur never knew him truly no matter how much they both wanted him to?

“No, they just fell asleep one by one!” Morgana denies again, desperate in her denial and he knows what's coming next as he looks into her green eyes, brows furrowed and face pinched in fear.

“It's obvious.” Merlin offers from behind him, coming to her rescue, and Arthur is not sure if he wants to laugh or close his eyes and hand his head in defeat, but nevertheless he looks back at him — large ears, blue eyes, a mop of dark hair, sharp cheekbones, features almost to fine for a peasant, but just right for Merlin — and looks at the boy he loves in the eye as he lies to him again. “When she started feeling sick, Gaius gave her a potion, right?”

“When was she sick?” Arthur defies him. “She never said that.”

“She was one of the last to be affected.” He lied like it was nothing. Arthur knew he lied, he had heard all the truths there were to be known knelt on the ground, surrounded by the darkness of the cave, with Merlin's chin rested over his shoulder, face pressed against his neck, _bleeding_ to death without him knowing. He had always lied so easily, and Arthur had never noticed. It hurt. “Somehow the potion must have helped.”

“What about everyone else?” He tries again, if only to commit to mind the way Merlin's face twitches slightly as he thinks of answers, weaves lies in his mind with speed enough to disarm a man.

To his side, Morgana looks on in desperation and Arthur feels terrible for allowing her to live through such fear and anxiety, wonders how many of these moments she lived through before turning to the woman who had sat by his side on the woods as he bled out and promised to watch over as he died.

“By then Gaius was too ill. He didn't have a chance to treat anyone else.”

Arthur's lips twitch, and he averts his gaze from Merlin before he can hurt himself more on the revelations his old life brings to this new one and looks back at Morgana, face a mask of innocence, but her eyes betray her; she looks relieved, if only for a moment, and then she looks down.

He snorts softly and finally he closes his eyes, a hand traveling over his face and then through his hair as he walks away from both of them and towards the two windows that bleed light over the room and that look upon the courtyard below, all of those people deep into a sleeping spell.

In another life, he would have believed the both of them. In another life, he would have sent Merlin to look for the potion and trusted Morgana a sword to protect his father with her life.

In this one, he merely says the words against the glass, heavy and undeniable:

“I know about the magic.”

When he turns, neither Morgana nor Merlin look much relieved anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know I'm useless and clumsy and I'm not Morgana, but please don't burn me Arthur.” Gods be good, he's whimpering. He's breathing too fast, he can't think straight. Morgana's hands are squeezing his arms as if to ground him back, but he can't, he can't, he feels like he's dying, Arthur knows about his magic and he is going to kill him. He can't cry, not in front of him. Not now. “I did everything to protect you, I did the best I could I… I would die for you, but I won't die by you. I don't deserve that, not after everything. I'm not going to let you burn me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bet you though you seen the last of me. You have not!  
> I just overcame my writer's block and I'm going crazy productive, so look out for chapter 7 on saturday, chapter 2 of In Case You Don't Love Forever, the final chapter to By Each Let This Be Heard and with coffee willing and the inspiration of being on my Hamilton shit all over again FINALLY update my Geraskier works (and TUA, PLS LORD, CHAPTER 11 NEEDS TO COME OUT AND NEEDS TO COME OUT SOON).
> 
> also,,,,, I just reread the shit I wrote for the Hamilton and the ATLA fandoms and I'm really trying to finish any of my WIPS before I do any more oF THESE.

Merlin's breathing halts and he freezes, the sharp claws of terror dug deep into his stomach and scrambling his mind until no rational thought can come of the mess it becomes.

He's somewhat aware of Morgana's long nails digging into his skin, hard enough to break it and draw blood, and he turns his gaze to her terrified expression finding in her eyes the same dreadful knowledge he has blossoming in the worst possibilities in his head, the knowledge everyone in Camelot knows by heart and experience: _people with magic burn_.

“You said you didn't tell him.” She says, much too small, much too weak to be Morgana's, in the way that reminds him of the frightened girl in the hallways tormented by nightmares that are visions or sat on Gaius' wooden bench, whispering confessions to him about magic. “You said you didn't tell him, you _promised me —_ ” 

He shakes his head immediately, one hand flying to rest over hers, Arthur be damned.

“I didn't.” He reassures her. “I didn't, I would never do that, Morgana.”

“He didn't.” Arthur's voice cuts the small world of anxiety and fear that wraps around them. “But I know about it.”

He's somewhat conscious of how Morgana breathing grows more erratic, how fear and horror and confusion bring tears to her eyes and make her a cornered animal, almost as dangerous as the golden hunter walking around the table towards her. It's a deliberate decision to step in front of her, to use his whole body to block Arthur from hers, to hold her arms behind him to calm her slightly as he backs the both of them away towards the door, to at least give her a fleeing chance if anything goes wrong.

“Arthur, please, think this through.” He says, pleadingly, and tries not to overthink the way he narrows his eyes at him, furrows his brows as if what Merlin is doing doesn't make sense, but that's absurd. Of course he would protect her. It's his friend. “It's _Morgana_.” He croaks out, not sure if to explain his actions or to appeal to his conscience. “She's kind, she's gentle, she would never hurt anyone, you can't tell your father. You can't let them burn her.”

“I would never let harm come to her.” Arthur's voice cuts him off, and Merlin thinks he can breathe again, certainly can feel Morgana’s nail loosen slightly in their blood-drawing grip. “Her secret is safe with me. I just wish you had trusted me enough to tell me.”

“She was afraid, Arthur. Surely you can underst—” He explains, almost relieved, almost reassured; then the prince shakes his head, looking at him in that hurt and wishful way Merlin doesn't understand:

“I wish _both_ of you had trusted me enough to tell me.”

His heart skips a beat, his breath gets back to being stuck in the back of his throat.

“I don't think I understand, sire.”

“I think you do, _Emrys_.”

It's like a punch to his gut. Morgana's hands tighten around his wrists worriedly once more at the choked sounds, still behind him, still being held by him, leans slightly so she can whisper near his ear.

“What does he mean by that?”

“You can't…”

“I know about your magic too, Merlin.” He begins, soft and gentle, as if he's speaking with a scared dog and not with the most useless of servants and the bravest of men.

Merlin shakes his head, takes in a shuddering breath and Arthur extends a hand to him as if he expected him to take it, working out how to plea him to not freak out, but before he could say the first 'it's okay', Morgana's shrill voice cuts through the tense atmosphere with: _'You have magic?!'_ and the panic kicks in full force, quickening the beats of his hearts until his ribcage hurts with it, his breath turns labored and he looks from Arthur to the floor to their surroundings, waiting for an answer he doesn't have.

“You shouldn't know.” He says, his voice getting more and more high pitched by the second. “How could you know?”

“Merlin—” Arthur says, tries to take a step forwards.

“Don’t burn me.” Merlin yelps, taking three steps from Arthur, pushing Morgana while at it, he doesn’t care. Arthur doesn’t follow, he just looks hurt. It doesn’t matter, because hurt is not the same as dead. “I know I'm useless and clumsy and I'm not Morgana, but please don't burn me, Arthur.”

Gods be good, he's whimpering. He's breathing too fast, he can't think straight. Morgana's hands are squeezing his arms as if to ground him back, but he can't, he can't, he feels like he's dying, he will be soon either way, because Arthur knows about his magic and he is going to _kill him_.

He thinks of Gaius' books, of guards and knight that come back from gory battles, the way their eyes lose focus and their breaths quicken and they can't think past the moment of terror they got stuck in. Is this what's happening? Gaius should be able to brew him some tea, but Gaius is asleep and when he wakes up, Merlin will be dead and there will be no need for tea.

“I did everything to protect you, I did the best I could I…” He can't cry, not in front of him. Not now. “I would die for you, but I won't die by you.” His head shakes from side to side, the words leave him sad and hurt and something else entirely; almost angry, almost scared. “I don't deserve that, not after everything. I'm not going to let you burn me.”

“Merlin—” He tries again, takes another step forward.

He's not going to burn for him.

“ _Swéor þá._ ” He roars, sending the table behind Arthur crashing against his back and knocking him to the ground with a heavy thump that shoots some regret through him.

The regret vanishes when he figures out that the weight of it will keep him pinned down for a while, and that’s when survival kicks in. He grabs one of Morgana's arms and runs through the door and into the hallway, only to be tugged into glancing behind him to find Morgana gripping at the doorway.

“What…?” She asks, breathlessly, looking at him as if he has grown a second head. 

“Come with me.” He pleads, and he knows the moment she sees it in his eyes, the same overwhelming fear she's feeling right now the spark to survive. She nods her head feebly once and he sets on a run, tugging her along.

Neither of them look back to see Arthur scramble to his feet, a pained groan leaving him as he curses under his breath.

* * *

Saying she was left winded in the wake of the whole situation back in Arthur's rooms would be an understatement; she felt like the world she has lived in for so long had been a pretty lie painted along the walls and the people she had lived alongside were merely playing parts and speaking through the lies underneath their tongues. Nothing made sense any more and with every step another piece of the ground and of the known parts of the world she knew crumble behind her. She didn't look back for looking back would be losing herself and she had learned from the mistakes of Orpheus where others hadn't.

So that only left looking ahead, at the one person ahead of her.

“You never told me!” Morgana manages to hiss at him, hushed for no logical reason given the whole castle but the three of them are awake as of now, and breathless for the most obvious reasons: that no matter how clumsy her friend might be, he's a faster runner than most deers she had seen evade Arthur's arrow. “How could you never tell _me?_ I told _you_!"

Ahead of her Merlin shakes his head against her accusations much like he's been shaking his head from time to time, as if to deny accusations whispered in his ear and echoing along his brain, or the reality of this day as a whole.

“I wanted to, but I couldn't.” He says, and her anger dies down ever so slightly at the threat of tears being held back. At great risk for the both of them and the crumbling asleep world they're running through, she stops her feet and he stops too, unwilling to force her to follow him and unable to leave her; still he doesn't turn to her. “You've known what is like to be afraid and hiding your magic for a _few months_ , and I— I have known nothing but that since I was _born_.”

That breaks her heart, more than usual, at least.

Gwen once said Merlin was way too good at tugging at one's heartstrings, and she sees her point now. Morgana wishes she had strongest heartstrings, harder to pull at, and squeezes his hand gently.

“I wish you had trusted me.” She says, raising her hand to cut another string of apologies, face softening with kindness and understanding. “But I can see why you wouldn't. Trust me going forward, okay?”

He almost smiles. Even though he doesn't, there's one moment where he's relived and so close to being happy she almost dares to hope for a smile. A beat, it's as long as her hope lasts. His face turns to the floor.

“If there's a forwards for me.”

“For either of us.” She offers, the weight of the world settling around their shoulders once more, the ghost smell of burning wood and roasting flesh in the back of her throat, but they keep almost-smiling against it all. Merlin shakes his head.

“He said he wouldn't harm you.”

“Yet you brought me with you.”

His lips twitch, annoyed and unhappy, but still close to a smile, like he often did when she won an argument. At least he was a better loser than Arthur.

“I just couldn't take that risk.” He says, and the world kill his smile and the fond feeling in her chest, and his eyes shift to the window, down at the courtyard, and she _knows_ he's looking at the spot where pyres are built. They both saw enough of their people burn to not know where they might be tied one of these days. “I wouldn't forgive myself if I left you to die.”

Tears well behind her eyes when she walks closer to him, arms wrapping around his neck and bringing him close, hoping to be reassuring through the fact that she is near him and safe and alive, and reassuring herself with the way he holds her back, hesitant and thankful. He is her friend, the boy she told about her magic and that helped her though he found he couldn't trust her completely, the man who admitted to having magic in favor of Gwen and her father and that had stepped in front of Arthur when he thought she might be in danger, and that she had been delirious to for a single moment have thought would throw her to the wolves.

She was an idiot.

“Thank you for not saying anything to him.” She whispers. “You're a good friend.”

Merlin sniffs against her shoulder, muffled and silent, but she feels the curve of a tentative smile draw against her shoulder nevertheless, more like a real smile than his other attempts.

“So are you, my Lady." He whispers back, and there's a heavy pause of silence in which the are both trying not to cry, until: “What is that?”  
Morgana frowns, backing away from the hug to look upon her friend, tilting his head towards the window until her gaze shifts towards it, squinting her eyes and finding that yet again she does not have an answer to offer for the party riding out of the woods. She moves to lean against the stone to watch as eight riders head for Camelot.

“According to the legend there were only seven nights of Medhir…” He mutters, behind him. “Then who's the extra rider?”

 _Morgrause_.

“I don't know.” She says, even though she knows, and feels terrible for not being honest to him when she just asked him to be it to her.

“Camelot is defenseless.” Merlin whispers, in a small voice, horrified as the realization slips from his tongue. “They'll be upon the castle soon.”  
It’s when her brows furrowed, alternating worried glances at her already overanxious friend and at the riders' figures, that Merlin's eyes flutter slightly and he stumbles to a side, and only due the fact she has her hands already on his arms that she manages to steady him enough to avoid near-collapse. As he blinks against the creeping tiredness of the spell sickness, the heel of his hand presses against his eyes, she hisses gently.

“Are you alright?”

“It's getting to me."

Her eyes snap towards the figure of her sister and the other knights in black.

_What was she doing?_

“Where's Arthur?” Morgana asks, looking apprehensively over her shoulder back in the hallway behind them.

“Probably looking for us.” He mumbles, blinking the tiredness away and steeling himself with that resolve of his that she used to joke with Gwen about. She's not joking now. “He won't help, Gaius is fast asleep and I cannot risk putting him in danger too if we flee.” His jaw squares as he looks to her and nods a couple of times, agreeing with the idea his mind with no small amount of reluctance. “There's only one person to turn to.”

* * *

When she thought the day couldn't get weirder, Merlin took her to the darkest places near the dungeons, so deep under the foundation of the castle there were no guards there to watch any of the doors in there. He opens one of them and walks through it into the cave.

Morgana follows behind him, eyes wide in disbelief, because of course Merlin's person was _not a person at all_ , staggering back until she almost ends up falling on her ass at the sight of a giant dragon, curled on the stone floor, eyes closed and apparently asleep.

“What the fuck?” She whispers under her breath, looking at Merlin, brows arched and demanding answers but he doesn't even look at her.

“What's going on?! Why is everyone asleep?!” To Merlin's despair, the beast snores. Morgana thinks it's best if it keeps snoring, so they won't be eaten, but to each their own, she supposes. “Please, not you as well. I need your help! What am I going to do?! Don't pretend! I know you're listening to me!”

The beast yawns, his jaws opening lazily without a care in the world, rows of teeth sharp as knives and three times longer bared against the golden light of the torches and making her press her back against the rock in the way she could only hope it would swallow her whole and away from a fire breathing creature that was over fifteen times her size.

“I don't need to listen to you, Merlin.” He snaps, still unbothered to look at the boy though his head laid turned to her and pills of smoke are blown in her direction, a thinly veiled threat. ”You always say the same thing: ‘Help me’. And yet you refuse to give anything in return. Now you will face the consequence of that decision. Camelot's end is nigh, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“I know I promised to free you, and I will! So get up, I'm freeing you today!” Merlin says, throwing his hands up before kicking at the floor and letting out a shout in a burst of anger that seems to shake the stones around them before crumpling to the ground in front of one of it's gigantic and very much deadly paws. “Hell, I should go with you.” The golden creature cracks his eyes to gaze upon the heap of Merlin, thrown at his knees and bowed under a feeling of defeat she could identify with, his yellow eye glancing at her with distinct sense of accusation as he rises in his front legs to better observe Merlin. “Arthur knows, alright? He _knows_ , and I don't know how.” Merlin croaks out, not bothering to look up at the dragon, his eyes trailed without focus on the palms of his hands. He looks as small as he sounds. “I don't want to burn.” The words leave him for the third time this day and they hang on the air, heavy and crushing his breakable frame, and even the creature can't help but lower his head nearer to him, compassion crossing his draconian features and Merlin finally snaps of it, finally inflates his chest and that spark returns to his eyes when he raises his gaze to meet the dragon's. “I don't want to burn, I don't want her to burn either.”

“Her life matters more to you than your own.” He says, bitterly and unsurprised, his eyes narrowed at him, no doubt holding all his fervent rebuttals to his warnings of the dangers Morgana stood for against him right now. “This is an oath I believe you will honor.”

“I will.” Merlin says, nodding so fervently his head almost rolls off his shoulders. “So help me break this last curse, and you'll be free. You can go as far way from Camelot as you want, I can go with you or I can take Morgana somewhere safe and find a way to fulfill this prophecy without being scorched bones and ash. But you have to help me, help us... Please?”

Sometimes the gods are good, or maybe it's just dragons that are occasionally good, because despite the way Merlin looks, as if he knew he could devastate his world and life by merely not speaking a word, the grave rumble of Kilgharrah's voice fills the air of his lair.

“It is one thing to cast a spell that puts everyone to sleep. The power to maintain it is a very different matter. It will need more than just words to break this enchantment.”

“What do you mean?” Her friend asks, brows pulled together in confusion.

“You must eradicate the source, Merlin.”

“I know about the goddamn dragon too!” Comes the shout from the entrance of the cave and three pairs of eyes turn to Arthur Pendragon as he storms into the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur: look, I know you have magic. and I—  
> Merlin: *yEETS a table at him and runs for dear life*  
> Arthur: FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I WAS GOING TO SAY I AM NOT GOING TO BURN YOU YOU DUMB FUCK
> 
> see you on Saturday!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, that could have gone better.”  
> Arthur blinks a couple of times before snapping his head to the side, fixing a outraged glare to the dark-haired man leaning on the doorframe, cross-armed and looking down at him with unconcealed amusement.  
> “You threw a table at me.”  
> “Seems like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing this chapter: *balances crack, balances angst, balances depression, oh shit, okay, can do this, post the final chapter of 'by each let this be heard', oh shit, oh shit, oh shi—*

‘Give him a chance, Arthur’, he had said. ‘He cannot share this burden if you don't let him in’, he had said. ‘Trust him to trust you’, he had said.

He had done all those things and look where he was now: trying to crawl his way out from under a very bloody heavy table of polished wood, groaning like Gaius would after bending his bad back for too long. Surely, he didn't give the best delivery and he wasn't the most reassuring, but he couldn't have been _that_ bad to warrant this.

Nevertheless, he digs his nails in the floor and moves to free his legs from under the table by pulling his body up by the strength of his forearms, promptly collapsing to the floor, rolling so his aching back is against the cold floor as he wheezes, taking steady breaths and cursing everything in existence. 

“Well, that could have gone better.”

Arthur blinks a couple of times before snapping his head to the side, fixing an outraged glare to the dark-haired man leaning on the door frame, cross-armed and looking down at him with unconcealed amusement.

“You threw a table at me. ” Arthur growls, gesturing with his hands to said fucking table. Merlin, with not one ounce of guilt on him, only shrugs.

“Seems like it.”

He doesn't give a damn that he loves him, he's going to murder that man.

With a string of profanities and curses that would put any drunkard on the local tavern for shame, he shifts to the side, gets to his knees and stands up, stumbling to one side.

“You tried to knock me out.” He says, stepping unsure steps towards him — _fuck, his leg_ — drawing the words for longer and with more frustration so he gets some reaction from a man who fled for his life like he was Uther himself. “ _With a table_.”

Merlin doesn't flinch at him, doesn't seem scared or scared at all, instead he seems to glow with fondness and some sense of growing amusement, stepping away from the door frame and _closer_ to Arthur, palms out splayed in a 'what can you do?' gesture that's too much at ease to make any bloody sense at all.

“After years knocking bandits out with tree branches, I would say this is the natural evolution of my attacks.”

“It's not funny, Merlin!”

“You were trapped under a table. this is hilarious.” He approaches and Arthur stops, frowning and confused; Merlin's face saddens for a brief moment, but then his eyes are focusing on his leg and a brief flash of gold relieves the pain to his ankle with the same expertise he had seen him smooth the wrinkles to his sheets with one firm swoop of his hand (probably using magic too, the bastard).

He's in different clothes, at ease, using magic in front of him, and taller, slightly leaner. 

“Where even is Morgana?” Arthur asks, unsurely, feeling like he has two pieces of a puzzle that he only doesn't know how to fit because he's not paying proper attention.

“I don't know.” He says; Arthur watches his face crease at the edges with concern as if he hadn't thought about the subject and look over his shoulder, back to the door. “Probably with Merlin.”

… What?

The matter is solved like he thought it would: he pays the proper attention.

Merlin is wearing blue, the blue shirt he won't wear until two years from now, and he's thinner than Merlin ever was, even in the first time he met him as a scrawny peasant from a small village, thin like he had only ever seen him in one place, the one Arthur walked out of and he didn't. He's not glowing with his amusement or happiness or anything, he's glowing because he's _glowing_ , as in magic-glow that fades at the edges and makes him almost translucent if he looks at him through the corner of his eyes. He's at ease because he knows him, fully, and knows Arthur already knows everything there's to be known of him; doesn't fear something as idiotic as having him burn him for his magic because he knows he loves him.

“Oh, great.” He says, and he means to be caustic, but he only sounds hurt. Merlin turns to look at him, and Arthur feels the burning behind his eyes and has to turn, for his own sanity if nothing else. “Now I'm hallucinating you. Lovely.”

“Arthur, you're not hallucinating me.”

“What would you call seeing a dead man, then?!”

“I would call it a haunting, but—”

“Merlin, it is _not funny_!” He turns, quite sure he's bloody red in the face and waving his fists towards him but Merlin doesn't even flinch, barely tries to move away from what may be a punch and so it was up to Arthur to pull his fists back before he could _hit his hallucination_ , because _that_ would be rude. Really, he's screaming at his mind, this is really a sign that he's already far on his way to free falling into rock bottom. “You are fucking dead, I woke up and you were _dead_!”

“Yes, I'm aware.” He says, and finally that spark of defiance lights Merlin's eyes, his face sets in that way that signifies he's tired of putting up with his shit. “Seeing as I was the one doing the dying part. Now, if you could stop yelling the obvious and actually paid some attention to me when I say: I am not haunting your prattish ass.”

The talking back warms his heart, and he doesn't have the stomach to stomp it down, so the sass is something he can work with, something he _wants_ to work with.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

_And could you please not leave me this time?_

“I will explain everything in the way.” Merlin promises (like he promised if he looked back he would be gone, like he promised he loved him, like he promised he could fix this, like he promised he would always be with him, _like the damn liar he is_ ) and he hesitates; but his face twitches in that helpless manner, and he realizes he can't pull him now, not when he _isn't here_ , so he will have to tell him everything if he wants him to. It's unfair and painful, but it's the only leverage he has. “Arthur, please, I'll explain everything, I swear, but Morgrause is coming to the castle with the knights and the people are still asleep, and if I wasn't lending you some of my magic you would already be feeling the affects of the spell. We have to go to Morgana and Merlin before it's too late. _Please_."

The man looks so earnest, so desperate. Add a couple more tears and he could picture him holding him, arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him into that crystal cave, sobbing so loudly he shakes Arthur's dying body with it. He can't say no to him, not when he can see he's trying to save him again, fix things for him, even if he's scared of the price.

Nevertheless, he does what he's used to: he lets him lie to him, and begins to run towards the dungeons with his lover's voice speaking things that don't make sense by his ear.

* * *

Merlin freezes for a moment, before he is turning towards the door and pressing himself against Kilgharrah's body for safety — which, if he thinks _Kilgharrah is the safer of two evils,_ he probably is really fucked — and sends both Kilgharrah and Arthur sputtering at the sight.

Morgana seems to be handling this shitshow of a situation they were in better than expected, only at risk of having a mild heart attack. Sadly, however, missing the imperative way which he was sneaking glances at her in lieu of saying ‘get over here and away of your crazy pseudo-brother for the love of the triple goddess'. No fear (or much fear) to the thought of his signal being ignored tho, because Arthur narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at Morgana without even looking at her.

“You bloody stay there or I swear to God—”

Morgana, in her infinite wisdom, merely widened her eyes, snuck a glance at Merlin and the pressed herself a little more against the wall, nodding slightly to Arthur's command; and then he was screaming at Merlin.

“First of all: what the hell, Merlin?!” He bellowed, waving his arms so frantically around him he could begin to fly from the movements at any moment; he pressed more against Kilgharrah, but the dragon didn't budge from his place to help him in any way, merely frowning a little harder at the Prince like he was seeing something particularly curious. “Look, I know you're freaked out, but I promised Morgana was safe so running away with her was stupid, and I was about to say I wouldn't hurt you either, so running away at all is double the stupid! And then you go and _knock me out_ with _a fucking table!_ I love both of you, I am not burning you at a stake, you moron!" He finishes his rant with one more yell, for good measure, and Merlin is not sure he's ever seen him this red before, in fact, he's actually turning slightly purple. before pointing a finger at the dragon, waving his hands wildly as if he could do much more than just punch him if given the chance. “And you!”

“My King.” Kilgharrah replies pleasantly, as if being screamed at by Arthur bloody Pendragon is just a casual hitch.

“Don't ‘my King’ me! I know what you're about to tell him to do and I won't stand for it!”

“What?” Merlin asks, looking from Arthur to Kilgharrah questioningly right around the time the old dragon all but grins in amusement and lets out an “Oh?”

“I know what you told him to do before and I know what you're going to tell him in the future and, let me tell you, you are a right arsehole!”

This time he doesn't bother with any of them, he looks directly to Morgana, who is visibly in the same mindset of questioning her life and the unnatural developments to it as he is, and fixes him the horrified and baffled look he's sure he's returning in the same degree to her.

“You're a shite creature! You can't give him no straight answer, then awfully bad advice and then do nothing when he feels horrible about it! Also —”

Nothing of this truly makes sense, but Morgana frowns for a moment before mouthing silently the question of ' _is Arthur defending you from that dragon?_ ' to which he answers with a shrug that stands for _'I have, honest to God, no bloody idea_ '.  
“— he's anxious and he has no self confidence and he's going to doubt himself constantly and become a killer and I'm pretty sure he was depressed at some point, and that's not mentioning the trauma—!”

Morgana nods her head as if to say ' _I think he is_ ' and Merlin arches his brows in ' _what the hell_ ' and, really, the kingdom is still at risk of getting murdered under a sleeping spell by bewitched knights, but sure, Arthur could fistfight a dragon if that was what it took to buy them some time.

‘ _Do me a favour?_ ’ he mouths at her. ‘ _I was going to yell at him anyways_ ’ Morgana answers, and he loves her so fucking much right now.

“— you prickled cock of a magic being! Hell, were you ever planning to tell him to tell _me_ , you lizard bastard?!”

“Is no one going to talk about the fact that everyone here apparently knew that there was a great, golden, giant dragon under the castle?!” Morgana asks, finally too damn bewildered by the whole situation to keep silent; widening her eyes at Merlin in the go-on-you-idiot fashion she usually fixes Arthur before she starts to bicker with him loudly.

This is it, he guesses, turning to face Kilgharrah once more and tugging at his scales to whisper the urgent question. 

“What is the source?"

“Not what, but who.” The dragon says, surprisingly quiet and leaning down his head as if he's decided this is a fun afternoon and there's nothing particularly unpleasant in helping Merlin to keep the saving of the Kingdom in a hushed manner as Arthur starts trying to yell louder than the King's Ward behind them. “Such spells need a vessel, a constant living presence to give them strength, and you have brought the source of this pestilence right to my cave.”

He turns to look at the same direction the dragon had been looking at, at Morgana…

Who has just thrown a shoe near Arthur's head and called him a ‘ _dense arse with as much sensibility as a pile of horseshit_ ’ and is aiming her second heel at him again as he screams a poorly thought out defense that goes along the lines of ' _Well, how was I supposed to tell you?! Excuse me, ma'am, I happen to know you're a witch and I know magic is a crime, care for a talk?!_ ’. Then ‘ _How about when you invited me to dinner, you idiot?!_ ', and t here goes the shoe, and ‘ _You'd have ran before the dinner— ouch,_ Morgana _!_ ’

No, he decides, turning around to hiss at Kilgharrah:

“Can't be.”

“I have warned you about her in the past, but you have failed to take heed.” _Ah_ , so when he doesn't do what he wants him to, Kilgharrah will raise his voice to catch Arthur's attention. So much for having a friendship here. The Great Dragon rises, opening his wings dramatically and (was that fire necessary?) all heads snap to them as he announces in a loud roar. “She is dangerous!”

“No.” Merlin screams back, because two can scream if it really comes to it; he's fought him in this stance before, so be it.

“And now she has chosen to turn her back on her own!” The dragon keeps on roaring, as if Merlin had never interrupted him to begin with.

“What?“ He asks, feeling winded and crestfallen all in the same.

“Ask her!”

He doesn't ask, but he turns to Morgana with wide eyes; Morgana who is frozen again, looking up at the dragon as if she expected to be ashes by now, standing barefoot in the cave and mid-rolling one of her silk sleeves up, probably to punch Arthur.

“Morgana." He calls, and her scared eyes flicker from Kilgharrah to him and lose some of the fear, even if they increase in something too bitter to be shame and too sad to be rage. “What did you do?"

“I didn't turn my back on my own, I turned my back on Uther.” She says, firm and filled with a righteous rage that straightens her back and makes her grow even when standing up to a dragon that sent her cowering seconds ago. Her eyes still blaze, though with a want to be understood when they snap towards him, and he doesn't feel threatened when she walks to him. “Merlin, he would burn us, you know that. You're still convinced Arthur will do the same—”

“I already said I wouldn't, bloody hell.” Arthur cuts in indignantly, and then, quieter, to the nothingness by his left. “No, you shut up.”

“ —we don't deserve to live in fear! We are not criminals just for having magic!”

She is right, he knows she is right.

“The spell is woven with magic of such power that even you are not immune.” Kilgharrah speaks from behind him and Merlin thinks about mother's tales, that no matter if there is an angel and a devil in each of his shoulders whispering terrible or great ideas, what he does is his responsibility alone. He doesn't want it to be, for a change. “You must act now before it's too late. If you do not, then Camelot will fall and Arthur will die, and the future you were destined to share will die with you.”

The usual no pressure, his brain tries to quip at him so the situation seems less desperate, but it's to no use. Kilgharrah knows him too well, knows how to work him into being scared just the right way so he gets him to do what he wants, and before he knows he's already looking up at his draconian face again, already asking:

“How do I stop Morgrause's magic?”

“That is easy, young warlock.” He says, and his eyes glow in that dark humor that sickens him most times. “You must kill the source.

“No.” Merlin whispers like one would let out a breath after a punch, stumbling back from him and away from Morgana; but before he can draw in another breath to demand another solution, Arthur reaches for him, his hand wrapping around his wrist and shouts “No!” and—

Everything goes white.

* * *

“Well, that was interesting.” Kilgharrah says, huffing a puff of smoke through his nostrils in guise of a chuckle, his tail wagging away the golden particles of magic that had exploded throughout his lair and wrapped around the mortals under him. “I knew the young Pendragon being bound to your magic wasn't doing of the young warlock, not with that much fear in him.” 

“I have grown wiser.” Answers the warlock — or what was left of him — as he lowers the prince, the witch and himself to the ground gently with a gesture of his hand. “And this was something I had to fix for myself, after your genius advise.”

“I told you what had to be done.”

“Not always what has to be done is what is right.”

The dragon huffs, baring his fangs into a sharp smile, even when faced with the eerily calm of the being of magic condensed that unsettles him in a way it shouldn't; brings shivers to the back of his scales and makes his throat itch to blow a defensive bout of flames.

“Did the young King think you perishing in Orpheus' Cave was 'right', or did you do what had to be done then too?” He tilted his head at the small smile and the silence the man, more Emrys than Merlin gave him, and tried again. “Or are you here by the Cave's bidding, to do what it think is 'right'?”

His features, pale and glittering with the gold of his magic, constantly shifting out and back in place, split into a grin that is closer to his than it is to the boy's fast asleep by their feet.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”


End file.
